


My Type

by threesipsmore



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threesipsmore/pseuds/threesipsmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he's there, that Penguin guy, the one that clung to that ridiculous hat of his with a casual confidence. He's sitting all hunched over in a bar that Kid now owns by default. They'd taken to this little island a few jumps over from their main base, had triumphantly staked it as their own. So Killer stands there now, wondering what he should do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Type

So he's there, that Penguin guy, the one that clung to that ridiculous hat with a casual confidence. He's sitting all hunched over in a bar that Kid now owns by default. They'd taken to this little island a few jumps over from their main base, had waltzed in some odd months ago and staked their flag in the red dirt with a dare and a promise, neither very kind.

Killer had convinced Kid to split his profits sometimes, to reward them with shabby remodels here and there, to swindle merchants into selling produce cheap. It helped scrap together some loyalty.

Which is why he's curious as to why a Heart Pirate is here, in this tavern, swirling his glass idly about.

So Trafalgar was here somewhere too, was he? In his dinky little yellow submarine with a sweaty polar bear and a room full of operating tables.

"We tried to throw him out," comes a whisper, "but he ain't like the others."

Scraps of loyalty, stitched together only by the occasional bout of confidence. Splendid.

So he settles himself down next to the boy, somewhat interested, if only a little thirsty. He'd been meaning to talk to the bartender real nice like, had been meaning to warn him about withholding information. There was a temple up in the mountains, an old one supposedly, one that could use a good plundering.

At least the vagrant kids were eager in coughing up useful hints. Penguin's pretty focused on that glass of his, nose wrinkled. There's a soothing murmur behind them, conversations muffled by their intrigue.

Were they watching him, curious on Killer's intent? Curious which bone he'd shatter first? Fear was a good way to cement loyalty- if you hadn't respected Whitebeard, you'd at least feared him and his boundaries.

"Oh, woah."

Penguin jolts a little, a bit of that drink slipping out. He manages a weak grin. "Saw your flag flapping about out there like a mad dog, but captain insisted, y'know, so if you're gonna reap anyone, go reap him."

It's an empty joke. If there were any that knew about scraps of loyalty, it was Trafalgar Law's men. To have such an obvious lunatic for a captain, and to still trail after him halfway across the world- well, Killer could relate.

"You know," Penguin comments then, oddly conversational, eyeing the murky contents of his glass, "you're not as big as I'd thought you'd be. I mean, I've seen the recent wanted posters. You'd look like you'd aped up or something."

Aped up?

"Ah, not that I'm saying you look weak or anything, Shachi's pretty scrawny but he convinced a bartender once to get plastic surgery just so he could fuck his face up. Grudges are what make people frightening."

He'd been so quick to correct himself. So there was an ounce of fear in him. Good. Killer couldn't quite in good conscience claim his name if there weren't at least a tremor of awkwardness in the air. It soothed his ego. So he raises two fingers and the bartender shuffles about for a good bottle and a straw.

"Kid _aped_ up too," Killer responds politely enough, "and Wire's never been one for running. Heat's got the body of an old man. We needed someone quick, and I used to be _very_ quick. So I backed off, gave Kid my weights and shed a few pounds of muscle-"

He trails off a bit, a cold beer appearing before him. The bartender looks to be listening in, an ear perked as he wiped the same glass with the same dirty rag.

He didn't quite like that.

So what if he'd lost the bulk he'd tediously nurtured? Did that make him less terrifying? He was still the Massacre Soldier, a Supernova- no, a notable name in _the Worst Generation._

"You were always scarier skinny anyways, like some sort of creepy Grim Reaper in punk clothes."

Killer snorts, choking a little on his straw. Penguin even dares to smile, showing a bit of teeth.

The foreign pirate takes a swig of his glass suddenly before groaning and setting it aside with a trembling sigh. "This is awful. Why'd you guys pick such a lousy island? I'd have conquered one that didn't reek of graves and rust. Something that smelled like cherry danishes and sulphur."

"Sulphur?"

The kid almost appears to leer at the thought, _"Hot springs._ At least then there'd be pretty girls. _"_

The bartender grumbles a bit, but Killer lets the comment slide.

"You want something a bit better?"

Penguin hums, not realizing Killer is actually offering something here. "C'mon."

He certainly does now, as Killer shifts from the bar stool, his drink neglected. If Penguin were hesitant he was convincing enough in not showing it.

Out back behind one of the further shacks is a patch of freshly overturned dirt. Under it is a hatch, something the local brats had acquired after a scuffle. Under the hatch was some of the best moonshine this side of the Red Line.

Some of those tipsy toddlers are hanging around it right now, legs swinging from rotting crates, some wrestling where the grass had long since died. "Scram."

They do so hastily, taking a bottle of the hooch with them.

"You're not going to gut them for stealing your liquor?" Penguin's either teasing him or honestly inquiring about his morals.

"Not mine, really," he shrugs. He doesn't feel like explaining himself to the kid. An old man used to live here long before they'd come along. Was storing it away for his anniversary or something, but then she died, and he died, and the earth provided him with free booze.

He fishes out an old mason jar brimming in discolored liquid, the lid sealed by rust and dirt. Penguin's hesitant, as if he suspected foul play somewhere between the red lid and the rustic creases. So Killer digs under the chin of his mask and yanks it back, ruffling those heavy bangs of his before he pops the lid and takes a heavy drink, knowing full well he shouldn't be intaking as much as he was. He wasn't light, but neither was the moonshine.

Penguin yanks it from his hand once he's done, downing it with a sudden surge of confidence. A grateful, if not giddy, sigh escapes his lips.

"Not bad," he rumbles.

Killer's lips quirk, head tilting just a bit to get a better look at him. His bangs shift, inhibiting one eye if only to offer the other one a bit more clarity. Penguin seems to mimic him, taking anther careful slip.

"You're so _blonde._ "

"Indeed."

"Ah," Penguin sighs remorsefully, the alcohol limp in his hand,"I wish I were blonde, blondes are always so gorgeous. And red heads, and the ravens and the oddly-pigmented ones- pink is a nice shade. I've always had a thing for pink."

"I'm guessing you're none of those."

A huff. "I can't tell if you're inferring or insulting."

Killer lets the boy think what he wants, grabbing at another jar. Some of these were warm, unnaturally and pleasantly so, as if they'd been boiled recently and left to sit. Killer hadn't ever properly understood the reason why- the kids had said the old man practiced witchcraft or alchemy or something that was, likewise, just utter bullshit.

But there was something to this alcohol. Chemicals?

"Here," Killer holds it out, and Penguin compliantly reaches over to skim the glass. A smile graces that boy's lips. "Hot springs!"

Not even close, but the kid's seriously buzzed, buzzed enough to drop his jar in favor of reaching his other hand out to clasp at Killer's drink, hands nearly overlapping the other's.

Something rings, something that sounds strangely like a transponder snail muffled by cotton. "Your pants," Killer motions with his head.

Penguin frowns, reluctantly letting go as he fishes for them. It's someone from his crew, _Shachi,_ and the boy is heaving himself up with a few languid stretches. "The submarine calls."

The submarine.

"Penguin," he says suddenly. "If I see you again, it won't be good. You should convince your captain to leave. That flag is supposed to be a deterrent, not an invitation."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You might be surprised then," Penguin remarks calmly enough, turning to head out, "just how _inviting_ your captain can be."

* * *

Kid's done it again. He's made decisions without consulting anybody, namely Killer. So Killer decides to return the favor, and when he catches sight of Penguin amongst Trafalgar's other more vague crew members, he's sure to greet him in a familiar enough manner to raise Kid's non-existent eyebrows, the fucker.

Why he would ever consider allying himself with the Surgeon of Death was beyond him completely. Unadvisable. Unbelievable. Were they part of the fucking boy scouts now, trudging up the mountain towards a temple that apparently held some influence to it?

Penguin seems to appreciate the gesture, smiling at him just slightly. That crew of his is baffled enough to amuse Killer, if just a little.

Insurance, Trafalgar had called it, he was going to be in the area for a bit and he wanted to use Kid as bloody _insurance._ And what was Kid getting out of this? Killer had a pretty freaking good idea what Kid was getting out of this.

"You think they've got deer somewhere up here? Ain't no proper meat in this town, and I'm starting to feel protein deficient."

"Your crew always so chatty," Kid hisses, never fond of bright and sunny mornings. And yet here he was, accompanying the doctor for a little hike.

"Now Eustass," Trafalgar admonishes, "you might like to nurture your mushrooms in the dark, but my crew is very much a part of everything I do."

Despite the off-putting analogy, that one struck Killer a little too hard. Penguin had known, hadn't he, he'd said something so knowingly the previous night. Kid was such an idiot.

"Anyway, I won't be too long. Promised Strawhat I'd copy down any poneglyphs I happened across, and word is, there's a very decrepit, very old cube of chicken scratch up here."

"This is for Strawhat!?"

"Well, _this right now_ is, but our little dalliance in itself is for our budding relationship Eustass. Imagine those cute little up-and-comers reaching the Red Line, only to realize that just beyond was the Surgeon of Death and Eustass fucking Kid. Isn't that what you want? Shriveled panties and soiled dreams? It's what your species feeds on right?"

"And you," Killer's muffled voice comes through, "what about you Trafalgar? Why the immediate interest in this area? If this little trip is for Strawhat, then what's in it for you?"

"It's a secret," Penguin says from beside Killer, feigning a loud whisper as he grins. Killer should be irked by that- secrets were usually just hidden lies- but he can see one of Penguin's eyes in the flittering light of the forest, a bit sharp for such a soft face.

"I don't like secrets," is all he murmurs. That friend of his, Shachi, seems to want Penguin back, fingers twitching and face altogether unpleasantly frightful. They must be close. Close enough that it was almost amusing.

"Says the man that hides his face. You know how rare green eyes are in the north? You wouldn't be hiding your face then, that's for sure."

Kid's probing gaze has him deciding that he doesn't like Penguin anymore. It's not removing his mask that's the big deal, but the circumstances that had led up to it. He wasn't particularly keen on divulging.

But that sweaty bear is yanking his friend back into their little huddle, fretting over Killer's silence, and Penguin is chuckling like the bastard he apparently is.

There's a river nearby, bubbling over moss and fallen debris, and a rocky cliff that excites the bear far too much. Great columns appear every now and then, great crumbling things of old gray and curling stone. Was Kid afraid that there'd be something up here worth taking, was he worried that Trafalgar would find something he hadn't uncovered first? He did have one of those complexes, didn't he, the _this is_ _mine_ attitude.

It's the only explanation that Killer can trick himself into believing at this very moment.

"Hey boss," Heat chews through an apple, "heard some people talking about that island again, the one with the mountains. They're saying someone else has taken it, that there's a pirate flag there now. Something about a bull and bones."

The one with the mountains- that would be Nemora, a pretty little stretch of green that Kid had been eyeing for the past month. Brothels spilling unto breweries with windows hung in silk, a few marble bathhouses perched on the sloping mountainside amongst the drowning paddies.

It wasn't a good thing to lose, and it was far too close to ignore.

"Don't worry about it," Trafalgar drawls, "we'll be heading there soon enough anyways. We can take care of it for you Eustass. But if you want your flag up there on that mountain, well, you'll have to come and claim it yourself."

Oh. Should he advise against this? He knows where this is going, and he doesn't feel like trailing after Trafalgar as he jumps between islands, acting like some sort of beastly escort. Of course, on the off chance that Kid takes Trafalgar up on his offer, he'll still need to sail over to inform those lovely people where the shift in power was headed. Welcome to the Kid Kingdom, here's your bloody gift basket.

"Won't be on no damn mountain. I'll have it right up in front."

"Like a giant 'fuck you'," Trafalgar chuckles, far too amused.

* * *

 

So the temple is smaller than he'd expected, the chicken scratch barley legible on a slant wall. Eustass kicks around a bit while Killer waits outside, arms folded.

"Ah, maybe you didn't want them to know?"

Penguin is there, surprisingly devoid of his crew. "That your eyes were green, that is."

"Perhaps you were feeling special," Killer divulges him, "that you got to see? Showing off in front of your friends, are we?"

A hint of a grin. "Maybe."

Killer watches him carefully, before he throws his gaze out past the sloping forest and towards the sea. "Hopefully his disappointment here eliminates his curiosity."

Penguin hums pleasantly, sidling up next to him as a flock of ringed birds flutter up from the foliage. "Ah, your ever terrifying captain. If it makes you feel any better, my captain didn't come home last night, at all, if you catch my drift."

Ammo against Kid, ready to be loaded. Penguin tips up the bill of his hat, grinning all the while. Whatever had been hidden before was now clearly distinguishable in the happy sunlight. There was nothing grand nor horrible about his face, simple angles and a simple expression. He had one of those casual faces, though the eyes were indeed a bit sharp.

"So it is brown then."

Penguin wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand, pausing. "Huh? Oh, yeah, most boring color there is. I'll give Eustass Kid one thing, he's got some pretty awesome hair."

Killer tugs on the boy's bangs a little, the brown somewhat damp. He must be hot under there, in his boiler suit and cap. Penguin seems to share his sentiment, peeling off the top half so that it hung around his waist, fanning out his tank. "Hey," he seems to smile, "why don't you take yours off, Shachi and Bepo abandoned me for the river anyway."

Heat would be by in a while, and Wire was sure to follow. Despite this he lifts it up, rubbing at his face as cooler air teased his skin.

"Ah, I just can't help it," Penguin continues to grin, "being a northern boy I'm a real sucker for green eyes. Was this girl once, town favorite, had the largest, greenest eyes you'd ever seen. Like watery emeralds, with a healthy head of gold to boot. Seriously, looking at you is like being up north again, where plants don't try to eat you and the weather makes sense."

Killer could try and appreciate the abnormal compliments, and the meaning behind them. He missed the south, missed the junk ships and the scrap yards and the plums that grew wild there.

Before Penguin can lower his hat Killer is snatching it, turning it about in his hands. "What's with this? You got it because it has your name on it, or you got it to put your name on it?"

Penguin doesn't appear to be too perturbed by the sudden interference, leaning over towards him with his hands in his pockets. "Shachi got it for me, was the first gift I'd ever gotten from someone in the crew. Besides, it makes me look mysterious, right?"

Mysterious?

"You and Shachi, huh?"

"What about me and Shachi? The sea can get pretty lonely, y'know. He scratches my back, I scratch his."

Well. That was shocking. He thumbs the fabric of the hat thoughtlessly. Penguin snickers. "I'm kidding. Shachi's got these really beady eyes, unlike you. It's all about the eyes, y'know."

"You can kiss me."

He says it so suddenly that it shocks even himself. His thumb falters, and those damned birds choose then to be ominously silent.

"What."

"It's what you're getting at, right? I don't mind." He does mind, but not in any way negative. Curiosity was never his friend.

And then there was something soft against his cheek, and a smile pressed gently there.

"You're really my type."

"I can tell."

"That obvious, huh."

"More like surprisingly initiative."

Penguin almost appears sheepish. "You have to understand," he murmurs so close, "I didn't even realize I had a type until I met you."

Killer eyes him, this boy with the damp hair and crooked grin. "You call that a kiss?"

Penguin's brow nearly disappears under the fringe of his hair, before he concedes happily enough, leaning in. "No, I suppose not."

Killer's feet taps his helmet on the ground, that hat heavy in his hands as Penguin works his tongue into his mouth, licking his lips, teeth, everything. He falters back a bit, dropping that stupid hat in favor of the coarse material of that white tank.

The kid had gumption to him, there was no denying that. Penguin noses at his cheek, pushing past to bite at his ear. Killer huffs in amusement, and Penguin is grinning into his neck.

"You're really my type," is all he says, and Killer thinks he might be right.

That brown hair was kind of nice in the sun, just bright enough to remind him of the hills out past the scrap yards, the ones where the grass never did grow.

"What's your type, Killer?"

Penguin doesn't move, just rests there against the other boy, nuzzling into his neck.

He hears Eustass calling after him, and so he wets his lips and toes at his helmet. "Who knows. I've always had a thing for pink."

A light chuckle. "You bastard."

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: threesipsmore.tumblr.com


End file.
